


Graphic Art

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-08
Updated: 1999-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:13:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos gets... artistic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graphic Art

**Author's Note:**

> his is not only my non-methostorture piece, it's also my first Duncan/Methos story in months. No guts, no blood, nothing but good clean...very sticky fun. Melina, you can have your face-paints back now, I'm done with them :)
> 
> Thanks Ellen! You're the best. And Ruth owns the title.
> 
> Disclaimers: I regret to inform you that two innocent vegetables were destroyed in the making of this story. Charges are pending and the SPCV's on my case. Oh, and the loft's kitchen floor may never be clean again. Oh, they belong to Panzer and Co., and if I really did own them this would be sent to you via video-clips and they'd take hours to download.

MacLeod pulled open the elevator door with the warning sounding in his head. Methos was home, then. The string of clothes went from the boot in the elevator to Methos' over-sized sweater peeking out from around the island. MacLeod followed the trail, picking up articles of clothing as he walked.

But then he dropped them all. Methos sat naked in the middle of the kitchen floor with his long legs spread out. MacLeod flushed, remembering how many times he'd felt them wrapped around him. Methos didn't look up at the clatter his boots made as they fell to the floor. He looked entirely focused on what he was doing. He must have had a shower recently; Mac could smell the floral shampoo, and his hair was just starting to dry in spiky tufts. Shadows under his cheekbones made him look very old for an instant. That was, until MacLeod realized that the strange colours that coated Methos' hands and forearms were finger paints.

In fact, pieces of his artwork already covered the fridge, held in place by alphabet magnets. They were primitive; Mac thought that it must be difficult to recreate human skin tones when all there was to work with was neon yellow and hot pink, but Methos was doing an admirable job. Mac could tell who they were and what they were doing in all the various positions. Methos over him in the bed. Methos over him on the floor. Methos over him in the shower.

The old man glanced up as if noticing him for the first time. "Mac," he said, and went back to his newest masterpiece. It was the first picture to involve anything from the four food groups.

"They're out of season," MacLeod said, feeling the need to say something.

Methos looked at him almost in contempt. It was like Methos couldn't even be bothered to humor him any more. "Splurge. Peel them, and they provide a natural lubrication. It's an English one, thought it might be easier for you the first time," Methos said, but kept his voice flat. "You're home early. Get me a beer."

Not only was Methos closer, Methos was right in front of the fridge. Mac had opened his mouth to comment on that when Methos glanced up warningly. What kind of game was this? MacLeod felt like an idiot who had thrown out the instructions. Methos' eyes were direct and cold, and his mouth was set in a thin line.

"I said, 'get me a beer,'" Methos repeated.

MacLeod almost shuddered at the chill in his lover's voice. Almost, but didn't. This was all just a game. He walked past Methos, opening the fridge behind him. He was very careful not step in any of the open jars of paint on the floor, and he was even more careful not to let the cold fridge door touch Methos' bare back. There was a six-pack in its cardboard carrying case, right next to a thin cucumber with perfectly smooth skin. His mind jumped to Methos selecting it from the grocery store, and his cock jumped with it. He could just imagine Methos rubbing it back and forth between his index and middle finger...rejecting one because it was too small, one because it was pimpled...

Methos cleared his throat. The cold air from the fridge had touched him and brought goosebumps to his skin. The short, down-like hairs that Methos did have on his body stood up on end and glowed in the light the fridge cast on him. MacLeod pulled a beer out quickly, opened it, and passed it to Methos. Methos glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, and MacLeod suddenly felt awkward and clumsy. Not to mention fully clothed. Methos sat nude in the middle of the floor with paint up to his--very beautiful--wrist bones, and Mac was the one who felt like the idiot. Methos' cock was asleep on his thigh, and Methos caught him staring at it. Methos smiled again, still cold, and idly reached down and stroked himself. He left rainbow-coloured fingerprints on it. "MacLeod," Methos said, snapping his fingers.

MacLeod dropped to his knees...not knowing what could have possibly possessed him to think of that response for Methos' actions. He continued staring at Methos touching himself, but it was obvious that Methos wasn't putting on a show for Mac's sake. If anything, Methos continued to grow more annoyed with him. His fingers twitched, as if to consider snapping again, and then Methos smiled.

Mac realized he still held the beer, and worse, he was still fully clothed. He didn't know which one to rectify first, and his indecision appeared to humour Methos. At least the some of the chill melted from his face. Mac didn't think he ought to put the beer down on the floor, but stripping with one hand took twice as long.

By the time he finished, Methos' hand was much more than just idle. Mac sat up long enough to pull his jeans off and kicked them behind him. Still up on his knees, he passed over the beer, leaning forward over the picture of him sodomizing himself with the cucumber. Crayola made these colours? If they only knew what was possible. It was amazing what they could be transformed into in the hands of a master.

And now his hand was in the master's. Methos' clamped down over his, and MacLeod inched himself forward so that he could sit back over his haunches and still be in Methos' grasp. Methos wouldn't let him look away...the hazel eyes with their little flecks of gold caught him, and he could feel his mouth dry as he became aware of his panting. This was just a game, he reminded himself.

Methos let him go. "It's warmed slightly," he complained as if blaming Mac for his body heat. MacLeod flushed again. It made all the times they had played the reverse roles childish. Methos took a long pull despite the beer's imperfection and motioned MacLeod forward. Mac went to him, shivering. Methos kissed him, or at least pushed his lips against Mac's own. Methos obviously wanted him to worry about the seal as he transferred the beer from his mouth to Mac's. MacLeod drank from Methos, then licked the drop that escaped the corner of Methos' mouth.

"Very good," Methos allowed and motioned MacLeod to sit back with a flick of his eyebrows. MacLeod let himself look back to Methos' erection, now hard against his belly. Methos patted it once and then let his hand drop away, looking down with condescension at Mac's own half-hard cock. "You'd like to touch yourself, wouldn't you?"

MacLeod nodded. Methos half sat up, not paying any attention to his own bobbing erection, and twisted. From that angle MacLeod could see the first drop of pre-cum leak out of Methos, and Mac would have sold the barge at that moment to lick it off, but Methos ignored his gaping face as he hung up the latest work. It only took a second to flex enough to reach behind him and open the fridge himself. MacLeod felt his cheeks go red as Methos returned to his spot with the cucumber.

Methos tossed it at him, and MacLeod almost had to lunge to catch it. He sat back with the cool phallic shape in his hands and glanced to Methos for guidance. When none was forthcoming, he decided to ask for it. "May I...peel it?" he asked, quietly.

"No," Methos said, but then smiled. "You can lick it all you want, though."

Putting on a show didn't bother him at all. Suddenly, Mac was eager to please Methos, as much as Methos had--sometimes literally--bent over backwards to please him. And it wasn't that large, either, eight inches long and only an inch and a half across at the widest point. It was bigger than Methos, but not by much. The perverseness thrilled him as he slowly went down on it. Methos leaned forward to take the cuke from him and hold it at a slightly awkward angle. Mac had to climb back onto his knees to get it all down his throat. While he was pleasing the vegetable, Methos kissed down his neck, feeling the cucumber move down in his trachea.

MacLeod pulled out for a moment, catching Methos' mouth. They kissed again, over the need to force their will on each other, and Mac still tasted beer on Methos' tongue. "Aren't you going to paint some more?" he asked.

"Later," Methos promised. "On a different canvas and after the floor show."

MacLeod sat back. "I'm ready," he said, taking a deep breath. And he was; his body ached with the thrill of it. Methos' eyes shone as well. Life with him was never, ever boring.

"Oh, good," Methos said, grinning. He moved back where he had been.

It was more difficult than Mac had thought it would be. To begin with, it was slick, but not quite slick enough, and he hadn't prepared himself at all. The cucumber pushed past his muscles without tearing them, but it didn't relax like flesh did. He hadn't prepared himself for how cold it would be, either. At least the cold soothed his muscles somewhat. He didn't like the way it wouldn't bend inside him, but then it slid across his prostate, and he groaned.

Methos' face had been tight while Mac wasn't enjoying himself, and MacLeod could almost see Methos wanting to call it off, but then it started to feel really good. Nothing like the real thing, of course, but a substitute, and a great way of showing Methos how much he would do to please him. It became more painful on his knees as he used his thigh muscles to leverage himself up and down on the thing impaling him.

"Methos...please," Mac groaned. He had had enough.

Methos saw it, too. He crawled across the paper and took MacLeod's face in his hands. All the coldness was gone. "I want to paint you," he said softly.

MacLeod glanced up to the fridge with all the pictures on it. "No. Paint you," Methos said. Mac nodded and kissed Methos back before getting on his hands and knees. Methos kissed his shoulder blades, pulling the cucumber out of him. MacLeod felt his muscles twitch from the sudden emptiness, and then Methos replaced it with himself.

The sudden heat, compared to how cold the vegetable had been, made him rock forward. Methos followed him to a point, and then pulled him back. His body opened up further, letting Methos inside him all the way, and then clamped down. Not hard enough to hurt--he couldn't, not after being stretched, but enough to show Methos how much he loved him.

Methos laughed and kissed his shoulders again. Methos held onto his hips and slowly began fucking him, but he only thrust a couple of times before asking without words for MacLeod to take over. It wasn't the violent pounding Mac had been craving without even knowing it, but the pressure on his prostate never left him, and he pressed his head against the cold tile to make it easier on himself to move up and down Methos' length.

When the first of the paints touched his back he shuddered. There was no way to describe the slightly oily, congealed texture of the paint running over his back, but Methos worked over his shoulders with the pink, blue and yellow colours before trailing his fingers over the small of MacLeod's back. Mac shivered, driving himself harder against Methos.

Methos only laughed again and leaned over him to gather more paint before reaching down and taking MacLeod's cock. Mac almost lost his erection for a split second as the sudden, cold, slippery paint made his bladder tighten, but that was over before Methos brought his hand all the way down his length. He grunted, throwing his head back.

Methos suddenly stopped moving. "Get on your back," he asked, pulled out of him. This time MacLeod did protest. "Methos--"

"MacLeod, get on your back, don't argue with me."

Mac twisted himself down, laying on the paper beneath him, and Methos moved over him again. "Hold yourself open for me," Methos asked, and even the iceman himself was close to panting out the words. MacLeod laughed at that, but held his legs open for his lover to use him however he wanted. Methos moved back over him, taking a moment to press himself back into MacLeod's bowels, and then kissed him. Oh, yes. Mac had forgotten the added bonus to this position.

The kiss grew serious as MacLeod parted his lips for Methos, but there was no domination in it. Sometimes they met in his mouth, sometimes in Methos', and sometimes they just...breathed together. Mac's multi-coloured cock flopped between them, painting Methos' belly as much as MacLeod's back was marking the paper underneath him. He could hear his skin stick and pull free from the paper beneath him as Methos broke from the kiss and held Mac's legs open wider. Methos' body tensed against his as the last strokes pounded inside him hard enough that the slapping sounds were probably heard in the dojo. Methos groaned for the first time, and his entire face tightened as if in agony. MacLeod reached down and began jerking his own cock in time with the thrusts. They both started to pant as the sweat made him even slicker on the paper under him.

Methos caught his prostate just at the right angle, and MacLeod couldn't stop the shout that escaped him. His hand milked his cock one last time, and the string of cum caught Methos' chest and stuck there. MacLeod gathered it up, bringing it to Methos' mouth, and Methos sucked his finger clean as he shuddered against MacLeod.

Eventually their breathing returned to normal, and Methos got off him so he could sit up. Methos peeled the paper off his back, and Mac craned his neck around to see the impression his back made. The colours ran together and blended almost to a purple brown, but his muscles groups were clearly defined. Methos laughed and hung it up in the middle of the others.

"Performance art," he announced.


End file.
